Undone
by Kimchi Poutine - Inactive
Summary: Tragedy breaks and shapes people. Some may be greater in scale, but everyone feels the same emotions. A take on the pain that shaped the beginning of V.


A final, powerful note, pierced the air with a smooth flourish; a gasp of silence broken with a crescendo of explosive applause; the sequins on her dress shimmered as she took a bow.

"Bravo, mademoiselle! Bravo!" They cheered for her, screamed her name with admiration, appreciation, awe. That this individual gifted not only with beauty, elegance, and youth should also be endowed with a divine gift for music was almost unbelievable. Yet here she stood, gracing them with her artistry, rightly triumphant in her glory.

The adulation continued, albeit at a quieter scale, when she attended tonight's reception. Many important figures were here, representing various studios, art companies—and none dard snub her. All of them were eager to meet her and she took her time indulging every single one of them.

Had the Angel of Music been mortal, she would be clad in shades of mint that matched her eyes.

Many claimed her to be one of the greatest musicians of her time. They didn't exaggerate by much. The youngest student to attend and excel in the most prestigious music school in the country, dominating every music competition and performance; she deserved every lavish praise.

This, she thought, this is what she had been born to do. Her passion was always the violin, and it would be hers until her death.

With each trophy, she became more. With each performance, the roaring audience, the diplomas, people begging her to take them on as a teacher, it was exhilarating. She loved the violin with all her heart and it was everything to her.

Soon a husband that matched her merits was presented to her: an exceptional and ruthless businessman who sold and traded art collections, running outstanding museums filled with expensive paintings. He was charming; a good businessman had to be, of course, to get what they wanted.

They went to functions together, and they were even more admired. The great arts dealer with the renowned violinist at his side; they were seen as an excellent pair. Both were living examples of success in the true arts, especially in a society that viewed art as impractical. They represented talent in living flesh.

"I presume the engagement party is not too afar, Chief Kim?"

"Only after I get a ring fit for the occasion, Chairman." Both laughed.

He wasn't a romantic, but she had been fine with that. He had followed the customs of courtship accordingly, honouring her parents and her with expected gifts. Her engagement ring had violin marking and was encrusted with jewels.

"It'll be a prosperous marriage for both of us." He had told her.

"So this is just another business deal to you?" She had half-joked.

"It's my trade." He smiled thinly as he pecked her on the cheek; chaste and quick. "One of my better ones."

There was, in truth, a trickle of regret as preparations were swiftly made. He was logical, almost to a fault. When they weren't attending important social gatherings or business events, he never paid much special attention to her other than the occasional conversation. He was a driven man, for sure, and meticulous in his dealings.

"…and do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife to cherish according to God's ordinance until parted by death?"

"I do."

"And now, do you, Lady…"

It was mostly a marriage of convenience to him, and perhaps she subconsciously knew. Both were married under the church, but she could hardly say that he _loved_ her. Neither did she. Both found the other interesting, got along well in the public eye, but love? No. She loved her violin. He loved his business. Love wasn't something they shared.

But, true to his will, their marriage proved a contract that benefitted both generously. An esteemed businessman specializing in art collections, together with a celebrated musician! Both his business and her musical career boomed.

It was spectacular. She performed in elaborate stages, beautiful dresses tailored for her alone, and shone ever brighter. She believed that she loved the artistry she wove into the notes that made her audience marvel and weep. She knew her art to be an inspiration to all.

With extravagance, glory, and her precious violins, she cared for little else. Her husband attended every performance—he had to, since he was her main sponsor. In turn, she went with him to dinner parties and events his business demanded.

Beyond that, they were separate people. He never discussed his trade deals with her, or his business beyond a cursory explanation of what he did, her involvement, and what she was to sign. He made no attempt to listen to her music in the house they lived in, finding it annoying when he was trying to concentrate.

"Wife, I am currently busy. If there's anything you need, ask the maids."

True, he bought her every violin she asked for and even converted a room into a studio so she might practice. Every morning, they shared a meal. Every night, they shared a bed as couples should. Every Sunday, they attended church—as couples should. Anything he wanted, he got. Anything she wanted, it was given.

A suitable marriage; but no matter how great the benefits, a loveless one. But she didn't care. She sought no love from him.

She loved her music, loved it more than anything else—or anyone else.

"Children?" She wasn't completely against it, but still she hesitated. She heard of many stories of fellow musicians having to stop playing in favour of the child, sometimes permanently.

"It'll be fine." He assured. "You can still play until the baby grows too big. After the birth, you are free to play again. I will look for suitable caregivers and tutors for the child."

"I will care for the child as well." She replied.

"Of course, of course," he nodded, "whenever you can. The child must have suitable parental figures when born."

After the conversation, it didn't take long for a child to be conceived.

"A son. Excellent." He smiled with satisfaction upon seeing the ultrasound pictures. "That makes everything much easier."

She felt the child growing within her, and felt a myriad of emotions. Joy was indeed one of them. She had never thought there would be anything that would draw her attention from the violin, but there it was—there _he_ was.

The pregnancy was difficult at times, but also a time for a different and special kind of joy. Her husband showed renewed interest directed at his heir, and by extension, the mother of his future child. He was present when they attended the party thrown for her to celebrate her career as she was assured that people would eagerly await her return after her child was born.

When her back pains became too much and she had to put the violin down, she didn't mind it as much as she thought she would.

She ate a lot of bread. French bread dipped in a mixture of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Anything she craved, she only had to quietly mention and the maids would be tripping over themselves to fulfil her requests.

When she wasn't eating or rushing to the bathroom, she listened. She listened to her performances, smiling at the memories of pride and joy, and hoped he was listening, too.

"I will love you as much as my violin, and even more than that." She whispered. "You will grow to have a wonderful life."

Her father-in-law designed the name, as was customary: Jihyun, which meant "Virtuous Purpose".

The name was okay, she supposed. Too single-minded, though. As if the child would be dedicated to a specific purpose without care for anything else. But it was just a name and she would raise him to be more.

It was supposed to be a routine check-up. There were no abnormalities in the fetus. Everything seemed promising.

* * *

Chief Kim was livid. It had been raining heavily, and as if that wasn't enough, the driver was _drunk_ and had simply driven away, making it a "hit and run". Traffic laws and the cultural "blame-sharing" often made it difficult to put all of the blame on one party. But Kim's long-time associate and precise lawyer saw to it that the offender would get every penalty possible.

Her head trauma had been severe. Everyone was worried at the thought of permanent brain damage and injury to the baby. It took a long time for her condition to stabilize, but the child was safe.

When she finally woke, it was to a silent world.

She saw people running about, speaking excitedly to her. She smelled a sterilized room and felt the uncomfortable prick of needles and the weight of the baby that, to her relief, still kicked with vigour. A sour taste lingered in her mouth form lack of use.

"All you all right, Madame?" The doctor made note of her lack of response and onset of confusion. "You're in the hospital."

She tried to tell him that he was speaking too quietly, that he had to speak louder.

She had no voice. She cleared her throat and tried again. No. Still nothing. Again. What was happening?

"Madame, please, calm down. Everything is fine now. Please keep calm, there are other patients nearby."

He was saying something. She saw his lips move, the machines that should beep. She saw a plastic bottle roll off the counter and hit the floor. She heard nothing of these.

She tried to talk louder until she could hear. She tried until she felt her throat ache and her vocal cords rattle. But there were no words. There was no sound.

She tried to scream: Help!

But all she heard was the silence of her growing panic.

Deaf; she was deaf. Something about the combination of the high sound pressure from the airbags deploying and the head trauma she suffered when her head recoiled at the initial impact. The technicalities didn't matter because she had the essentials: She was deaf and it was unlikely that any sort of treatment would cure it.

Not that she didn't try; oh no. She searched everything she could, frantically in denial. Hearing aids. Cochlear implants. Not much wax blockage. Surgical procedures.

He searched as diligently as her, if not more. He knew more businesses, more people in important positions.

"Mr. Kim, I understand that this is a serious issue, but the damage done to your wife is irreversible."

He never lost his composure. "Are you quite certain, Dr. Jang?"

"I'm sorry, but her condition is permanent. I recommend therapy. If she doesn't opt for learning sign language, there are lip-reading courses and speech therapy available."

"…"

She didn't fully understand what they were saying. But she saw the doctor's apologetic, sombre expression. She saw her husband's eyes, stony with cold disappointment. He looked at her once, but when their eyes met, he was the first to look away. Seeing this, her hands curled into fists, trembling.

"If I may recommend a suitable therapist, sir."

"No need." Chief Kim rose, inexorable. "Thank you for your time."

"…" She never talked. The one time she tried to say something to her husband, he stared at her, mortified. She didn't know how she sounded, but afterwards, she never spoke to him again, not if she could help it.

She screamed the first time she held the violin and tried to play her favourite concerto. She felt the familiar vibrations as she eked out a tune, but no sound. Always no sound.

She had collapsed, nearly causing her maid a heart attack. She was immediately put to bed before her husband arrived.

"Wife, do not destroy yourself. It is not just you at stake." He warned her with a strained voice and tight face. "I understand your grief, but it bodes ill for our child."

He said it slowly so that she might understand, but she didn't care. She didn't care about him. She cursed the driver who caused this misery, this hopeless silence that broke her love for the violin forever.

Occasionally he kicked—the child, of course. She was getting heavier, and each fetal movement reminded her that, perhaps, not all was lost. She was still a mother-to-be, and she had made a promise to love the child as much as she had loved the violin.

She had also promised the agency she would return as soon as the child was at a manageable age. She had also promised a concert in late March. She had also promised to replay 24 Caprices—one of the most difficult pieces for a violin—to one of her husband's business partners.

 _Why? Why did this have to happen to me?!_

Chief Kim sighed with irritation and anxiety when he heard her outbursts of rage and screaming and tears. They were human reactions, and she would have to overcome them.

But those weren't the worst phase she went through. He thought her tantrums would be the worst, but the quiet, sinking grip of real depression was what left him the most appalled.

She refused to eat. Her eyes became lined with shadows of hopelessness, no longer swollen with countless tears. She refused all forms of medication that would compromise the baby. She blankly went through her belongings, rejecting all of her future performances and contracts. "Extenuating circumstances", she wrote.

"Sir, she refuses most food and sends us away." A harried maid addressed him with the daily report.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Make sure she takes the supplements, at least. If she refuses to eat, give her plain broth."

She wasn't even caring for their son! He was disgusted. He had worked this hard to make everything in his life run like a well-oiled machine, and she was so selfish in mucking everything up. She snapped at the servants that tried to help her. Her voice became more slurred and unhinged.

She didn't even seem to care when he told her they would sleep in separate rooms. She barely blinked when he told her that she would be staying in the most remote room of their house and that all of her belongings were already arranged there.

The child kicked in response.

The servants felt truly sorry for her. Companies and fans sent her cards and gifts of sympathy that piled in her room. They gave her condolences and messages of encouragement that her husband never bothered to give.

But each gift and every kind word was a blow to her. It was a continuous reminder of her failure. Whatever gratitude she felt was eclipsed by the crushing reality that she would never perform another piece. She would never hear the joy of her music and the applause she merited, ever again.

When she finally went into labour, there were no fewer complications. The birthing process, like everything else in her life now, was eerily silent. The pain nearly made her faint and the nurses were talking too fast for her to understand.

CPD. She had CPD—the baby couldn't come through her pelvis. She was given medication—she was too weak to resist—and after what seemed like a lifetime…

"Ma'am, you did it, congratulations!" The nurse smiled as she came in. "He's all right now, your son. Here you go."

All those months, the pain, and labour? What labour? She reached for the bundle instinctively, holding him carefully in her arms.

A small, red baby; her baby. He already had a tuft of hair— _her_ hair, bright sprigs of mint. She felt him wriggle in her arms, opening his little mouth to squall, perhaps, and she cried. This was her son; what a fragile, tiny creature he was! And as she held him, exhausted and weak, she felt something other than the murky cloud of apathy and grief she carried. She wanted to look at his eyes…

Then he came. His expression was curled in distaste.

"You must recover. The nurses told me you had a difficult birth. I will take the child."

She saw him coming, arms outstretched. She knew they weren't for her. She tried to tell him that she wanted to hold her son a little longer. But he took the child anyway, as ruthless as he had always been. He snatched him from her arms, nodded once, and walked out.

She had the stunned and uncomprehending look of a child. Her arms had been too weak to hold onto him. The one promise she desperately wanted to keep, to cherish him—now ended with the sharp click of the door that closed behind them.

She cried, harder this time.

* * *

"What is to be his name, Sir?"

"Kim Jihyun." He looked at his son. A strong baby, despite the complications of his mother; he gurgled before blasting out a strong cry.

"My word!" He chuckled. "He's strong." Breaking his demeanour, he smiled a warm smile at his heir. "Yes, you'll be a fine one. You needn't worry about a single thing, my son."

Kim looked at his son with affection. He would raise his child to be a worthy heir and a son he'd be proud of. The child opened his eyes, staring at his father as though transfixed.

The same eyes and hair as his mother—that was fine. Actually, if those were the only traits he gleaned, then Jihyun would be fortunate. Anything else, Kim would teach him to be better. He already had a suitable tutor in mind, and the nanny should come soon.

His wife was a failure, and he would take every measure to make sure his child didn't go down the same path.

* * *

"I don't want your depression to affect him so early in his life. It'll be better if he remains with his nanny while you recover from your post-partum depression."

Post-partum depression—negative impact on the child—his child, he mentioned, as if he created him on his own—the boy should have a normal childhood, not have a parent with a debilitating disability—

Once again, her world was reduced to the confines of her room. The sun shone through her windows, illuminating flying bits of dust. She closed the blinds over it. She didn't want to see the sun, not yet.

Everyone still felt sorry for her and uncomfortable when summoned. The poor lady of the house, not only deaf and fallen from the pinnacle of her career, but also denied her motherhood. The servants were reluctant to show her where the young master was; all risked angering Chief Kim.

Sympathy, like all resources, dwindled. Gifts of condolences trickled to a halt. Fans dispersed, following other musicians and leaving her behind like the derelict she was. All the gifts she received she had given them to her maids anyways.

"…"

She had lost everything. She was nothing. Everyone knew it. The room was like its occupant, admitting neither light nor cheer. So why did she continue to live?

She looked at the cabinet that held all of her violins. Why did she keep them? They were useless, just like her.

She opened the dresser, grabbing the first violin that came to her hand. This was the one her husband gave as their wedding present. A few months ago, she may have felt rage over the shallowness of his interest in her or morbid glee over the wretchedness of her plight.

But she felt nothing, not even as she swung it down, feeling the wood splinter apart.


End file.
